


i will make it up to you (i promise to)

by typhonic



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Forgiveness, Thunderstorms, adora's bad habit of getting stuck on cliffs, and adora doesn't know what to think, because glimmer took over, catra eats some toast, catra thinks she doesn't deserve to be forgiven, get catra therapy club, hard conversations, like the first shred of hope, morally grey rebellion, shadow weaver calls the shots, the beginning of redemption, tw blood and injury mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 06:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20502095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typhonic/pseuds/typhonic
Summary: “I’m not asking you to join me, Catra. I just want your word - no more killing.” Tentatively, Adora stretches a cautious hand through the metal bars for her to shake.No, Catra wants to say, no, I will never promise you that. Don’t you get it? I would kill you right here if I had something to do it with.But it’s late. The storm is finally calming. The guards will come in the morning.or:catra inadvertently saves adora's life and then ends up in a bright moon prison cell with her legs bandaged from the alliance's weapons and a leaky ceiling dripping dirty water onto her tangled hair. a nontraditional heart-to-heart follows.





	i will make it up to you (i promise to)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from hard to say i'm sorry by chicago!
> 
> so, this fic is sort of a mess, but i've been wanting to write it ever since season 3,,

The wind howls and crashes against the dust-covered rock walls of the canyon, the sheets of heavy rain rolling down their edges and making them drip tears of crimson dirt down into the abyss like blood pouring from a deep gash. It’s as far across as it is going down, and although Adora can’t see the other side through the thick cloud of sediment and debris that the raging storm has kicked up, she knows that death awaits her in every direction but up. The Horde is still here. She can sense them; she can feel them through the horrible, deafening silence that permeates the air and stabs at her eardrums until they burn so badly it makes her head spin. They’re far from gone; they’re surrounding her, closing rapidly, ensuring that each passing second is one second less that she has to live. All that’s left to do now is wait.

She stands, legs shaking, on the edge of a tiny, jutting overhang, her hands grasping into the broken crevices of the solid rock behind her so tightly that her knuckles are white from exertion. The rain washes over her in buckets, soaking her now-loose hair until it’s plastered to her face and shoulders, and the wind thrashes it about, making the flyaway strands whip, stinging, against her cheeks. Her sword is long since gone, flung violently from her arms by the storm and sent crashing to the bottom of the chasm right before she’d fallen off the edge herself. The rest of the Alliance is nowhere to be seen, and strong as she is without She-Ra, even Adora can’t hope to pull herself twenty feet up to the top of the cliff by the skin of her teeth. Her body, though seasoned by years of training, is still no match for the freezing, water-slicked stone whose only footholds have already crumbled away under the force of another landslide. There’s only one way out of this mess, and Adora can’t reach it. 

What a pathetic way to lose a war.

The soldiers are closer now. She can hear the low grumble of their tanks, wheels scratching against the rough, gravel-layered ground as the army draws nearer and nearer, sealing her fate shut with each bout of footsteps. Surely, she thinks, they’ll blast a hole into the side of the canyon, setting off a tumultuous avalanche that will knock her over as easily as a house of cards succumbs to a careless whisper. Or maybe they’ll just shoot her outright rather than waste their power on a perfectly good natural landform. She decides she’d prefer the latter - better to be dead before she takes the awful fall from such a nauseating height. Finally, the noise becomes so loud that Adora is certain she’s been discovered. 

Someone is approaching the edge of the precipice directly above her, and it takes every ounce of courage she has to will herself to look up and face her executioner. The figure at the top of the bluff hesitates, then kneels down to peer at her from underneath their hooded cloak, eyes glinting strangely in the red-tinted light. 

Adora stares. Her grip tightens on the rock. Those eyes are familiar.

The wind picks up all at once, blowing Catra’s hood roughly back to reveal her telltale freckles and wild, brown curls. She’s alive - after nearly four months of silence, she’d finally come back just to shove Adora off of a cliff herself before the Horde could get the satisfaction. The irony was almost cruel; Adora had spent many a night during those long months sitting up in bed with a cup of cold, untouched tea, gazing blankly out her window, unable to stop herself from wondering whether her rival had managed to survive. 

She laughs to herself, dry and humorless, marveling at her own stupidity. So this is how the legacy of She-Ra is going to end. 

She’s no better than Mara.

Catra leans forward, slightly, cautiously, over the edge, and Adora gets a better glimpse of her face - a mocking grin accentuates her features. Her headpiece is missing, but she’s gained a new scar that stretches from the middle of her cheek to the underside of her chin across her left jawbone. It looks fresh.

Suddenly, Adora’s footing falters, and she slips back, boots scraping against the rock, a little farther. The scare of it sends a jolt of adrenaline pulsing through her heart, and she struggles to steady her buckling knees.

Catra snickers, still leering down at her. “Wow, Adora,” she drawls lazily, “you really need to break this habit of getting stuck hanging off of the ends of cliffs. I think this is, what, like, the fourth time?”

Adora glares back, gritting her teeth, blood boiling in her veins despite the aching cold that’s starting to numb her skin. 

“Shut up, Catra,” she snaps, “just get it over with.”

Catra frowns. “What?”

“Do what you came here to do.”

Throwing her head back, Catra laughs loudly, the sound’s distorted echo ringing through the empty space around them. 

“What, you’re not even gonna ask me to get you out of there? No heartfelt speeches today? I feel kind of shortchanged, honestly.” She smiles again, fangs protruding over her bottom lip.

“I said shut  _ up _ , Catra,” Adora growls, the tips of her ears glowing red. 

“Yeah, not likely,” Catra says, still grinning that horrible grin. Then she narrows her eyes, pointing off to the side with her little finger. “Oh, and by the way, I didn’t come here for you. I came to watch the Horde blow everything up and enjoy it. Maybe blow some of their stuff up too while I’m here. I’m not too big on loyalty codes anymore,” she clarifies, “since I lost my power in the hierarchy. Just here for the destruction now, really.”

Adora rolls her eyes. “Of course you are. Well, get on with it, then. The destruction, I mean.”

The other girl raises a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re really not gonna try to stop me, are you?”

“Nope.” Adora takes in a sharp breath as the adrenaline begins to wear off, leaving her to feel the full extent of the pain emanating from her raw, bleeding palms. She shifts her grasp to her fingers instead.

Catra laughs again, but there’s something different about her tone this time. “Well, in that case,” she sneers, “we’re all going to die anyway. Why sooner than later?” And with that, she gets deftly back to her feet.

Before Adora knows what’s happening, something long and thin and wiry, like an electrical cord, is slapping against the side of her face, hurtling from side to side in the angry wind. It’s Catra’s whip, the one she’d stolen in the Crimson Waste. She jerks her head up, astounded, to look - Catra’s holding tightly to the other end.

“Tie a knot at the bottom around your strongest foot,” she instructs, shouting down through the whirling chaos of the storm, “then loop it up higher around your hand so you don’t slip.”

Adora doesn’t have time to argue. The Horde is seconds away. Fixing herself into the makeshift rope, she bites back a scream as she feels it dig deeper into her injured hands. She half-expects to be dropped back down into the chasm as Catra starts to pull upwards.

She isn’t.

Catra offers her hand, and without thinking, Adora grabs it tightly, scrambling to reach stable ground. As soon as she’s safe, bottled-up fear floods over her in an uncontrollable wave, and it only intensifies as she catches a glimpse of the true scope of the canyon below her. It’s about fifty feet deeper than she’d imagined.

Straight away, her stomach reels, and a foul, dreadful nausea overtakes her, making her arms and legs tremble with stupor; she drops to one knee out of weakness. Shaking violently, she immediately expels the contents of her stomach onto the ground at her feet. Her heart pounds in her chest, and she gasps for breath.

“Ew,” Catra comments, wrinkling her nose.

Adora spits; struggles to her feet. Catra might want to wait for the Horde to show up and kill them both, but she has a few other ideas, such as staying alive to see the next day; fight the next battle. She’s not going to stay here and give up. 

Impulsively, she grabs Catra’s hand again. They break into a run.

* * *

The first thing Catra’s aware of when she comes to is how much her ears  _ hurt -  _ she’s got a pounding headache that spreads all the way to the sides of her face, and there’s a constant ringing sensation that makes her want to tear her own skin off. She groans in pain, rubbing the mist out of her bleary, bloodshot eyes as she tries (and fails) to sit up straighter.

She’s on the floor in a small, dark room - a cell, she realizes after a moment of processing - and the gatelike door is bolted shut with the type of old, rusty metal bar lock that she hasn’t seen used for years. The crude granite ceiling is leaking water from the rainstorm that’s still raging outside, and a few musty drops are falling from a large crack directly above her, rolling unceremoniously down her nose and hitting the floor beneath her with an unsatisfying  _ plink. _ When she gives herself a quick check to make sure her limbs are all intact, she notices that the top of her right leg is wrapped in heavy white bandages. The skin underneath feels like it’s been run over by a train that was also on fire - it’s throbbing even worse than her head, searing imaginary holes into layers of her flesh. She kicks her heel against the wall in an attempt to ease the burning, but it doesn’t help much. Sighing with frustration, Catra leans back again and presses her eyes painfully shut, resigning herself to the dull ache in her thigh.

The memories come flooding back. 

Her own hands, wrapped so tightly around the end of her whip that her fingertips turn numb and blue; her muscles straining with effort, channeling every remaining ounce of energy to haul Adora up and away from inevitable death. She doesn’t know why.

Sprinting vigorously over the gritty, rain-soaked sand, Adora’s hand in her own, pulling her out of the Horde’s grasp even as Catra protests; even as she demands, enraged, that she let go.

The Rebellion. The princesses. The fierce struggle to get away. The sudden realization that she’s on the ground and her leg isn’t really working like it’s supposed to.

Adora’s voice behind her, tinged with fear, regret; desperation:

_ Wait - no - you don’t understand - _

Then, waking up here - wherever  _ here  _ is, with streaks of dried blood on her face and matted, clumping knots in her hair from letting it dry without combing it through.

_ Am I in Bright Moon?  _ she wonders idly.  _ This doesn’t feel like Bright Moon. _

A large droplet splashes down from the ceiling leak, soaking her loose bangs anew. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, snarling, and jerks herself roughly out of the way, only to find that she’s moved directly into the middle of another puddle of water, pooled together in a spot on the floor that’s slightly lower than the rest of the surface. Grumbling to herself, Catra reluctantly removes her dingy brown cloak, bunching it up against the stone so she can sit down without getting wet. 

From a ways above her, the harsh clanging of metal against metal tears her from her train of thought, and she goes still, her ears pricking up instinctively at the rattling echo that reverberates through the empty corridor outside. The way the sound is amplified confirms Catra’s suspicions: she’s underground. It also reminds her of the stories she used to hear in the Horde, about vengeful ghosts who roamed the ruins of the ancient, abandoned war prisons, hurling their chains against the walls and wailing out long, eerie moans that would shake you to your very soul. The spirits waited there, unable to pass on to another life until they had satisfied their desire for the blood of their murderers. 

A shiver courses down Catra’s spine as she remembers something else.  _ If the murderers are already dead, any unfortunate soul who happens to be lingering in the antechambers (or the cells) will do just fine. _

Someone has opened a door upstairs, Catra assumes, because she can hear the bolt of a sliding lock scrape shut from an indeterminate location. The click-clack of boot heels on granite becomes barely apparent, then gets louder and louder until she’s sure that whoever is down here is making a beeline for her cell. She gulps, praying that it won’t be a ghost - or, at least, not a bloodthirsty one. 

_ Is there any other kind of ghost? _

After what seems like a century, the footsteps halt, and Catra looks up to see a robed figure with a double-pointed staff standing on the other side of the bars - a member of the Royal Guard. So this  _ is _ part of the palace.

The figure stares down at her from underneath a gaudy silver helmet, unmoving. Something feels wrong, but Catra ignores it.

“So,” she scoffs, waving her hand to indicate her dilapidated surroundings, “what’s all this? I thought Bright Moon didn’t have prisons.”

The guard shifts uneasily on her feet, looking off to one side like she’s afraid of being discovered. Then, she pulls off her helmet and hoists it under one arm, revealing a swinging blonde ponytail, her hair soft and dry despite being ruined in the same storm as Catra’s.

“We don’t.” Adora says. “These are antiquated. The whole thing is a big underground tunnel network that used to allow servants quicker access to different parts of the castle. Hasn’t been in use for anything but storage in ages - not until now.” There’s something unreadable in her bright blue eyes, turned to a dull gray in the dim light of the cavern, and she stares down at her feet, her voice going quiet. “But this isn’t Bright Moon - not anymore. Not really.”

Catra knows what she means, but she doesn’t say anything. She’d never known the Rebellion the way it had been before the queen’s reforms - it was always the same to her. But how good could any kingdom be with Shadow Weaver seated at the right hand of the ruler? 

Instead, she glares up at Adora, fangs poking from the sides of her mouth. “Why are  _ you _ here?”

Adora shrugs, reaching inside the helmet she’s holding to retrieve a small bundle. She moves to sit down on the floor, now level with Catra as she unwraps the fabric around it.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

Catra is hungry. She laughs scornfully. “I don’t need your food or your help. Leave me alone,” she spits.

Adora ignores her. She passes the bundle to Catra through the metal bars, then turns to shake the crumbs off of the outer wrapping.

“Are you stupid, Adora? I said I didn’t  _ want  _ this.”

Gritting her teeth, Adora throws her hands up in exasperation. “Fine,” she bites back, “see if I care. But you’re the stupid one if you think you’re strong enough to fight off all the real guards up there on an empty stomach.”

Catra forgets her anger for a split second at that, surprise betraying her expression. “You’re letting me go?”

Adora rolls her eyes. “Of course not. But sooner or later, they  _ will  _ come for you. And if you aren’t particularly inclined to die, you’ll have to fight them.”

Her common sense finally kicking in, Catra opens the package of food, untying the blue handkerchief and setting it carefully in her lap. The contents are strange - thick slices of bread with poppy seeds baked into the crusts, and hard-cooked eggs that slip from her hands when she tries to pick them up. These are the kinds of things that she only knows the names of - the Horde had never served much aside from ration bars.

She doesn’t bother to question it.

Adora sits in silence as Catra eats, and makes no move to get up, even when the empty handkerchief is balled up and tossed at her head through the bars.

Catra frowns, swallowing down the last bite of her eggs. “Okay,” she concedes, unable to ignore the fact that Adora is still occupying her space. “Now, why are you really here?’ 

Adora hesitates, picking at a patch of dirt that’s caked onto one of her shoes. The silence is filled with the continued dripping of the leaky roof, and the sound seems louder and deeper than before, pounding into Catra’s ears like the steady rhythm of an executioner’s drum.

When Adora finally answers, her voice is a welcome distraction. 

“I wanted to tell you that I’m glad you’re not dead-”

“Oh, well, gee,  _ thanks,”  _ Catra cuts in, her tone melting sarcasm.

“ -  _ and,  _ I wanted to thank you. For saving me.”

“What?” Catra protests, incredulous. “I didn’t save you!”

“Yes, you did, Catra, whether you like it or not. I would have died on that ledge if you hadn’t shown up.” Adora asserts, arms crossed defensively over her chest.

Catra can feel the anger bubbling up in the pit of her stomach before Adora has even finished speaking. Growling, she kicks the cell door as hard as she can, making the other girl flinch back and blink in surprise. 

“I didn’t do it for you, you idiot! You really think I’d let the Horde kill you before I get a chance to do it myself?”

Adora’s features flash with hurt for an instant, then harden. Her brow furrows. She stares Catra right in the eyes; looks straight through her flesh into what remains of her soul. 

Then, she sighs. Her head drops, heavy, towards her lap. 

“I know,” she says gently. It’s not an accusation. She lifts her blurred gaze back to her enemy’s face. “I forgive you.”

Catra stops, astounded. The unexpected words are running a loop in her mind, and her jaw slackens as she gapes in confusion, struggling to come up with a response.

“I don’t - I don’t want your  _ forgiveness!”  _ she sputters, a mix of emotions burning in her eyes.

A ghost of a smile passes Adora’s lips at that, and she raises her head a little more. 

“I don’t think that’s your choice.”

Catra forgets how to speak.

“No,” she tries weakly, her voice coming out mangled and choked, “you can’t.”

“I can,” Adora affirms. “I know I can, because for the longest time, I told myself I would never, ever forgive you, and that I would hate you forever for how much you hurt me.” She sits up straighter, and her body seems to radiate a steadfast confidence. “But that didn’t work. It just made me bitter, and angry, and miserable, and it hurt me, Catra, - it hurt me more than you ever could.” 

Hot tears sting at the corners of Catra’s eyes, and she blinks them rapidly away before they can fall.

“I don’t want it,” she mumbles.

“You already have it.”

“Take it back,” she cries out, kicking the cell door again, making it rattle and vibrate against its hinges. “I don’t fucking  _ want  _ it!”

Adora shakes her head. “This doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop fighting you, Catra. If you keep destroying things, I will fight you every single day to fix them. But I’m done trying to fix  _ you.  _ You’re the only one who can undo what you’ve done. _ ” _

That hits Catra too hard, but still, she laughs. It sounds more like a gasp for air.

“Don’t be dumb, Adora. Nobody can undo what I’ve done.”

Adora doesn’t answer. Instead, she gets slowly to her feet, picking up her staff; hoisting the ugly helmet back into her arms.

“I have to go. They’ll be looking for me by now.” She hesitates; bites her lip. Her eyes turn back to Catra.

“Before you leave,” she insists, “please. I just need one thing.”

Catra scoffs. “Why the hell should I listen to you?”

The other girl takes a quick roundabout glance at her surroundings, then shrugs nonchalantly in Catra’s direction. “I don’t see anyone else for you to listen to.”

“Fine,” Catra concedes reluctantly, if only to be rid of her faster. “What?”

Adora’s face fixes in a serious expression, all hints of former teasing gone.

“If I see you again,” she starts, “promise me you won’t kill me.”

Dumbfounded, Catra narrows her eyes. “I’ll never join you, Adora. How can you possibly not know that by now?”

“I’m not asking you to join me, Catra. I just want your word - no more killing.” Tentatively, Adora stretches a cautious hand through the metal bars for her to shake.

_ No,  _ Catra wants to say,  _ no, I will never promise you that. Don’t you get it? I would kill you right here if I had something to do it with. _

But it’s late. The storm is finally calming. The guards will come in the morning. 

Adora is still free of her helmet. She steps closer to the door. Her slender neck is fully exposed. The bars are thin and widely spaced. Catra’s arms are strong enough to choke the life out of anything.

She grabs Adora’s offered hand, giving it a stiff shake. Then she steps back, silent.

Seemingly satisfied, Adora nods; she turns away, hurrying back down the corridor and up the stairs until her footsteps fade into nothing and her flickering shadow disappears into the darkness.

Catra checks the bolt on the door. It’s unlocked. The rusty hinges squeal with the strain as she tests her luck, pushing it backwards a few inches.

She remembers what the prison spirits from her childhood stories used to say right before they stilled the heartbeats of their wretched victims.

_ A life for a life. No matter why it was lost. _

_ Or saved,  _ Catra realizes listlessly. 

The vengeful ghosts never cared how many lives they took. 


End file.
